The Forced Truth
by AkamaiMom
Summary: To save her life, he had to force her confession. Too many truths were divulged that day, but none so hurtful as this. Nor so wonderful. Sherlock/Molly ship. Spoilers for "The Final Problem". A quick one shot inspired by the Season 4 finale.


_**The Forced Truth**_

 _This is my first Sherlock fic, inspired by the events of "The Final Problem"._

 _I'm a Molly/Sherlock fan, so if that's not your thing, you've been warned._

 _Special thanks to Scousedancer, ndj35, and Stacie for helping with this one. I appreciate you!_

-O-o-O-o-O-

He'd knocked against the materials table on purpose, swinging his hand just enough to impact the edge, causing the tools to clatter against one another. It wasn't calculation as much as desperation.

She still wouldn't look at him.

She had to know he'd entered - Sherlock had made the usual attempts to hide his footsteps, but she would still be aware of his presence. If prodded, she could tell him exactly how long he'd been there and which route he'd taken through the city. Her skills in that regard approached his own, although she would smile it off and make some self-deprecating comment on her failings. But then, it was in Molly's character to allow others their secrets. She hoped her associates would be inspired to share, rather than be compelled towards honesty. The only people she forced information from were the ones who laid on her carefully curated slabs. Even then, she had the tendency to converse with them. Apologizing to them as she cut and measured and probed. Commiserating with them on their demise - however timely it may have been.

 _Hunched shoulders. Haphazard ponytail. Perfectly pressed laboratory coat. Sandwich unwrapped on table, a half-bite taken from one corner. Cold tea. Empty Cadbury's wrapper. Milk chocolate with almonds._

 _Lack of attention to self-care. Seeks work as method of coping. Lack of appetite. Sweets-binge._

 _Mild depression brought on by emotional turmoil._

And she'd ignored his entrance into the laboratory.

It had to have been on purpose. She was avoiding him. Just as she had the other night when she'd hurried to hospital with Rosie. She'd checked over John from head to toe, but had neglected to even acknowledge that Sherlock was in the room.

She could have at least slapped him, like she had after his exit from the drug den so many years before. Let him know she cared.

He reached out and ran a finger along the curved chrome of the table. It was cool, and smooth, but for the tiny pits and scratches in the finish. Typical of the type, really. Metal was easy to clean, but didn't fare so well in contact with other metals. And while Molly was a conscientious sort, she wasn't particularly careful when changing between instruments. She tended to toss things.

"I know you're there." She hadn't turned, but her shoulders had straightened a bit. She made an odd noise deep in her throat and shook her head. Her hair swayed gently against the solid line of her spine. "I hope that you can understand that I'm not in the mood for your excuses today. Or your games."

"I'm not playing a game, Molly." His voice sounded harsher than he'd intended. No matter how he tried, he seemed incapable of treating her with indifference. Sucking in a silent breath, he tried again, gentling his tone. "Nor am I here to offer excuses."

"So, what was that?" She turned her head, angling her chin over her shoulder. "That phone call. The ridiculous request you made?"

"It wasn't a game."

"So you've said." She returned her gaze to the paperwork before her, her entire being a statement of her disbelief. Picking up a notepad, she starting flipping pages. "But then, you've always got some sort of perfectly reasonable explanation for the things you do, don't you?"

"There was an - incident." Sherlock took three paces towards her before stopping, his coat swirling around his calves. "You know the particulars. I know that John spoke to you."

"Something about a sister. And a dead child. And a sick kind of riddle." Her hands stilled on the paper. "He really didn't give me details, and I didn't ask for them."

He couldn't read her like this. Perhaps it was to his advantage not to see her face, but it was what he wanted more than anything else right now. What he needed. Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, he tried to steel himself against the desperation that was rising anew within him. His hands curled into fists. "Molly."

Throwing the notepad onto the table, she swiveled around to face him. "What, Sherlock? What could you possibly want from me now?"

"It wasn't a game this time. Far from it. Eurus knew my weaknesses. She played upon them as if upon a fine instrument. She knew which strings to pull. John. Mycroft. My own intolerable ego."

"Those are, indeed, your failings." Molly shook her head, a wry smile playing upon her lips. "Especially the ego part."

"And you."

"Pardon?"

"You. She knew about you."

"What did she know about me?"

Sherlock steeled himself, not quite prepared for the words he needed to say. His bottom lip tightened in an odd sort of quiver, his jaw working until he'd found some semblance of composure. "She knew who you were. What you were."

"No." Molly bit her lips together, her eyes wide. "No. I'm nothing at all. Not to anyone. Especially not to you."

"You are my weakness, Molly Hooper." He couldn't tear his gaze from her, however difficult it was to watch her as she listened to him. Hurt still radiated in her eyes - pain and dismay and a wary kind of disbelief. He was surprised by how much her expression affected him. Hurt him. Surprised at how much he welcomed that hurt. "You are, perhaps my greatest weakness, because you are the one that I've stolidly disavowed. The one that I have refused to acknowledge. Of all the people she threatened, you were the one I feared losing the most."

"But surely - John - "

"He is a friend. The dearest friend I've ever known. The only friend I've ever known. Well, the only one I can remember, truth be told." He hadn't meant to bring that part up. Redbeard was still a new wound. Painful and not quite scabbed over. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock re-focused. "But John Watson is capable and sure. He accompanies this madness of mine of his own volition. And Mycroft. Well, my brother harnesses my madness, does he not? Using it for his own ends."

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Sherlock." She stood, tucking her hands into the front pockets of her lab coat and then taking them back out. "What are you trying to say?"

 _Splayed fingers denoted hesitation. Chin tilting demonstrated dubiety. Crinkled nose showed confusion._

 _She wanted to believe, but wasn't going to allow herself to._

 _Scepticism and mistrust based on years of association with a man incapable of being trustworthy._

Shaking his head, he dispelled the deductions swirling around his mind. Sherlock squinched his eyes closed, concentrating on his purpose. "I'm trying to say that it was true."

"What was true? What John said? About the business with Mycroft?"

"No. The other. The conversation you and I had on the telephone." He dipped his head down, looking up at her from beneath an errant curl. "Whilst you made your tea."

"Oh." She frowned, blinking rapidly. "That."

"Did you mean it?"

Her indrawn breath seemed perforated, somehow. As if her body were trying to decide if she needed to breathe or speak. Finally, she fixed her gaze firmly on his. "You made me say it. You bullied me into confessing something that I had no intention of telling anyone. And once I'd said it, you merely went away. I know why you did it, but it doesn't help me feel any better about it."

Sherlock pressed his lips together tightly before asking again. "Did you mean it?"

"Why must you do this, Sherlock?" It was a whisper - very nearly a plea. "What could you possibly hope to gain from all this?"

"Because I did." He found it difficult to look at her just then. Unsure of - everything, terrified of the consequences. Still, he had to continue. "I did mean it. What I said to you."

The light dawned. Molly's lips parted in an unspoken 'oh' before clamping shut again. Her cheeks blossoming with colour.

For some idiotic reason, he felt it necessary to say it again. Stronger, this time. "What I said was true."

She shook her head again, slowly, strands of her dark hair flowing over her shoulder in stark contrast with the pristine white of her lab coat. "I saw them remove the explosives from my flat, Sherlock. I am well aware that you said what you said in order to save my life."

"But are you aware that what you said saved mine?"

Her brows lowered over eyes swimming in confusion. "Now you're talking in riddles again."

"For all these years, I've known. The glances, the looks, the gifts. The hurt I caused you with my poorly chosen and harsh words. I've known how you've been - affected."

"It wasn't too bad. I should have learned my lesson long before I did."

"But as I stood there, in that room, staring upon your coffin, I suddenly realized what it would mean to me were you to be in it. Throughout the ordeal, John and I kept telling ourselves that we needed to divorce ourselves from our feelings. That we needed to be soldiers." Sherlock stilled, his eyes falling closed, only to open again with fervor. "But soldiers fight for something, don't they? Country, honour, freedom. Home."

"You're not a soldier, Sherlock. Never have been."

"No, I'm not. But if I were, what would I fight for? Country? No love lost there. Honour? What claim have I on that commodity? Freedom? I'm not particularly obedient to anyone, am I?"

"No." She let out a little laugh that bordered on the hysterical. "Obedience isn't one of your virtues."

"Home." He swallowed. "Home connotes hearth, comfort, acceptance. Patience. Home connotes family. Someone for whom you would wish to fight. To sacrifice yourself."

"Mycroft and John. Your parents."

"Yes, yes. They're all very important." Sherlock waved his hand at random nothingness in the air, pivoting a little on the heels of his shoes. "But they aren't you, are they?"

"I - " She hesitated, shuffling slightly towards him, her face awash with confusion. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"You make me want to be a better man." Somehow, he'd drawn even closer. Close enough that he could see the striations in her irises, each individual lash, the mottled blush of her cheek. Molly wasn't conventionally beautiful - but then, physical beauty had never meant much to him. It was a distinguishing characteristic, and at times could be considered a motivating factor. He himself had reduced attraction, need, and love to mere chemical responses more times than he could count. Perhaps because he hadn't really understood them. Hadn't allowed them to move him. But now - now things had changed. _He_ had changed. "Something is different, Molly. Something in me. I've seen - things. Felt - more than I have been accustomed to. And the fear - the desperation that seared its way through me at the thought of your death was profound. It's more than friendship. It's consequential."

"How can I possibly believe you, Sherlock? You'll say anything to solve your case, won't you? You'll take any tack. Lie. Cheat. Steal. You'll manipulate and - "

When he touched her, her lips clamped stubbornly shut, her eyes wide, and wild.

Her skin was soft - smoother than he'd imagined. His fingers trailed along her cheek, then traced the outer curve of her ear. Her eyes drowsed closed a little, and she leaned into his touch, pressing her jaw against his palm. Her own hand came up to curl around his wrist, her thumb making whispered arcs against the heel of his hand.

 _Shallow breathing. Dilated pupils. Pinkening of the lips and cheeks. Flushed throat, her fingers light and hesitant on his skin._

 _Arousal. No, no. More than mere sexual attraction - desperation. Desire. True emotional turmoil. Upheaval._

 _Love_.

"I don't know how to do this, Molly Hooper." Close. She was so close. She was filling him, overpowering his senses. Her smell, her feel, the warm puff of her breath, the curious sound she was endeavoring not to make - a cross between a sob and a sigh. The way she moved beneath his palm drew him nearer. Suddenly, he needed to engage all of his senses.

He'd wondered about her taste in odd long-past moments. Tried to imagine what it would feel like to have her lips part beneath his, to share oxygen. He wasn't a novice - the mechanics of the kiss weren't a mystery. The reality of it, however, was stunning - far beyond his scientific explanations of pheromones and physiological response. It was a mutual give and take, an exchange of far more than anything as banal as saliva. A kiss was a demonstration of emotion, an engagement of a primal nature that drew two people closer and provided them an avenue for sharing their own selves.

 _Touch. Hard. Soft. Heat. Closed eyes. Hands slide. Teeth. Awkward-beautiful. Tea. Chocolate-taste. Lips, lips, mouths. Open. Sigh. Full-touch. Caress. Want. Want._

 _Want more._

The softness caught at him, of her lips, of her cheek, of the darting glances of her tongue. Of the pads of her too-agile fingers where they explored his features and teased at his throat. It was tentative, then bold, then pure. Her responses at once sweet and provocative. She pressed her body against his, softness to strength, her unremarkable form suddenly intriguing beyond measure. How perfectly she fit against him - the slight tremble of her chin, the way her hands slid through his curls, her sigh against his lips - her arms wrapping around his body even as his gathered her close.

Something surged within him - an odd protectiveness that only emerged for those to whom he had conceded his pride. Mrs. Hudson, John, Mary, Little Rosie.

And Molly. _Molly. Molly._

Molly, whose taste and feel conjured up images of a home he'd never wanted. Whose touch made him wonder whether it was possible for a man like himself to find more to give. Whose mere presence made him want to share her space.

He'd barely pulled away before he was trying to decipher it all. His hands still framed her jaw, his fingers tangling in the loosening strands of her hair, his forehead pressed against hers. Broken, his words barely dented the air between them. "I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"Do _this_. Be this. _Be_ this man."

She lowered her chin on a smile. "It's all right, Sherlock. I know the kind of man you are. I always have."

"What kind of man is that?" He closed his eyes, savouring the warmth of her body beneath his hands. "A stupid man? A silly sod of a man who can't recognize what stands right in front him?"

"Stupid, no. Silly sod? Absolutely."

"Molly. I'm serious."

"Fine. You're the kind that seeks truth." She reached up, capturing his gaze as she smoothed her palm against his cheek. "And there's truth to be found beyond the deductions, you know. Truth beyond facts."

 _Half-smile. The body tight, yet soft. Shivers and sighs. Her palm light on his shoulder, her fingertips still tangled in his hair._

 _Amusement. Awakening. Continued touch._

 _Happiness. Joy. Confusion. Longing._

 _Hope._

He shook away the clues again, brushing past the meanings that still made no sense to him. "I don't understand."

"No. But you will. I'll help you work it out." Molly's expression had turned thoughtful, her eyes wise and deep. On what seemed to be pure impulse, she rose up on her toes again, pressing another kiss to his mouth. Softer, gentler than before - less intense - as if she were taking his measure. But then, that smile returned, a fleeting upturn of her lips that seemed to make her entire being lighten as she gazed up at him. "After all, I'm told you're quite clever."


End file.
